


The Day Is Gone (The Sky Is Blue)

by fizzyblogic (phizzle)



Category: All-American Rejects
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/fizzyblogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to forevernew, clumsygyrl & violin_road for letting me bug them with snippets. For EL & Toby & James.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Day Is Gone (The Sky Is Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to forevernew, clumsygyrl &amp; violin_road for letting me bug them with snippets. For EL &amp; Toby &amp; James.

> There's a song that Tyson doesn't show to anyone. Not even Nick, just yet. It isn't finished, just some phrases and the chords, the hook that got stuck in his head one afternoon between radio interviews on the last tour and stayed, long after he'd given up trying to match it to anything but itself. The melody came later, late morning on the beach. The words only come when the lights are out and there's no paper near him. Usually when he's just drifting to sleep; the kind you scramble to remember, knowing you'll have forgotten them by morning.
> 
> Tyson doesn't forget them, most times. The ones he did forget, the first ones, they came back to him in the shower and he almost fell out, tried to fit them all on the mirror because it was too far to find some fucking paper.
> 
> He already knows what the song is. He already knows _why_ he can't show it to anyone – especially Nick – until it's all come together. He keeps it on scraps of paper. He's starting to think it's burned onto the backs of his eyelids.
> 
> It's a map.
> 
> Stillwater to New York is the curve of Nick's upper lip. Canada to Seattle to Portland to LA is an undulation, the movement Nick makes when Tyson licks his ribs. Half tickle. The guitar lick is almost the exact sound Nick makes when Tyson fucks him, right when Nick squeezes ten seconds before he comes. The song is the map of them, and it isn't finished yet. There's other notes, other melodies, that fit in with them – part of the verse and the drum roll are Chris, the sweet undertone and half the bass line of the chorus is Mike – all of it, the harmonies, they come together under the skin on the backs of Tyson's hands.
> 
> He maps it out on napkins, envelopes, post-its shoved under his pillow. He'll show Nick one day. When it's ready, and he's got candles and a guitar, because he knows how he wants to do it. That's the ending of the second verse, the candles, the guitar, maybe after dinner, and maybe Nick will smile at him softly, and maybe Tyson thinks about it a lot.
> 
> The last line uncurls as he wakes up, just in time for him to grab a pen and write it down. _The sun sets and you're mine._ Tyson blinks at it, puts it under his pillow, and rolls back over to press his chest to Nick's back, one arm slung over. Nick smiles.

*

**Florida**

Nick's legs are lying across Tyson's knees. He can hear a clock ticking, but he's sure they don't have any in this room.

"Nick," he starts, but then stops.

"'S the hall one, Ty," Nick says without looking up.

Tyson pauses. "You knew what I was going to say before _I_ did."

Nick looks up. "Yeah. You're just being surprised by this now?"

Tyson lays his hands on Nick's legs, twisting to look him in the eyes. "Nick, are we boring? Are we one of those boring old married couples who go to gardening centres on weekends and only ever have conversations about whose turn it is to take out the trash?"

Nick doesn't even raise his eyebrows. "No, Ty, we're not."

"But we finish each other's sentences," Tyson points out.

"Ty, you've known me since you were thirteen," Nick rolls his eyes. "Come on, man."

"Okay. But – when was the last time we – we – "

"What? Had group sex with our friends? Friday. Maybe it's just you who's getting old." Nick pokes Tyson with his knee. Tyson fends him off.

"I am not old," he protests. "I'll show _you_ who's old." He moves, quick, "Lithe like a _cat_," he mutters, and Nick laughs. "You're not supposed to _laugh_, asshole," Tyson huffs.

"Sorry, Ty. You are lithe like a cat. Prowl like a panther." Nick moves with him, until they're both kneeling up, facing each other. "Fuzzy like a kitten," Nick finishes, ruffling his hair.

"Fuck you," Tyson crows, landing on him with force. Nick is almost laughing too hard to brace himself against the arm of the couch, but manages. He blinks up at Tyson, pinned.

"Fuck _you_." Nick is staring. Nick is definitely staring. Tyson grins. "Fuck you and your cocksucking _mouth_," Nick sighs, and leans upwards. Tyson makes a pleased noise at the back of his throat and kisses him, rasp and press and just a little wetness. Just enough.

"I do have a cocksucking mouth, don't I?" he smirks into Nick's bottom lip. Nick snorts.

It's true, though. Tyson has sucked every cock in his band.

*

**Mike's College Bar, Stillwater**

Behind a college bar in a college town in Oklahoma is probably not the best place to be exploring one's sexuality. Never mind that Tyson isn't even legal yet (Nick is! his brain helpfully points out, in the one sober corner of it) – if anyone finds them out here (and the chances of a person stumbling out drunk are pretty much three to one, this time of night) they're dead. Which may not, Tyson's sober corner, becoming even more sober and almost spreading it to the rest of his brain, brought up, be quite such a figure of speech as an actuality. About as actual as a gunshot wound can get. The rest of his brain pushes this to one side; they were making out in the tiny room that counts as backstage, if they were going to be shot it'd have happened by now.

Either way, Tyson is sinking to his knees in front of Nick fucking _Wheeler_, and at this point the entire bar could empty into this alley and aim guns at them and Tyson wouldn't give a fuck as long as he could suck Nick off before they died. The look on Nick's face is making it hard to talk; Tyson keeps thinking of words, but then glancing up at parted lips and the way Nick's looking down at him like he can't exactly believe he's about to get a blowjob. Tyson wonders if it's his first. (It's Tyson's.)

"Are you gonna," Nick puffs his breath out, hips forward a little, and Tyson swallows and nods, reaching for his zipper. Nick's head goes back as Tyson unzips his jeans and gets a hand in, pushes them and Nick's underwear down, and then he's leaning forward, forward, and his mouth fills with Nick's cock.

Nick makes a small sound above him as Tyson sucks experimentally, trying it out.

Yeah. Yeah, this giving head thing is pretty fucking sweet. Tyson surges, wrapping one hand around the base and just gently squeezing. He thinks about the handjobs he's given Nick, what made Nick whine at the back of his throat, and tries flicking with his tongue the way he does with his fingers.

Nick gasps, a sharp intake of breath, and Tyson looks up, cheeks hollowing and heart thumping as he watches Nick watch him. Their eyes lock.

Tyson sucks.

Nick tangles his hands in Tyson's hair, palm cupping his cheek, and smiles; right until Tyson twists his wrist and sucks especially hard. Then Nick tips his head back and comes, mouth dropped open and the tiniest of groans, stifled.

Tyson stands up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He zips Nick's jeans up for him again and kisses him, Nick leaning lethargically in. "Fuck," Nick whispers.

"Yeah," Tyson agrees, and wonders if it was a suggestion.

*

**somewhere in England**

"Hey, so." Chris puts his feet up on Tyson's legs, the way he does sometimes. Tyson raises his eyebrows and looks up from Nick's copy of Rolling Stone. (Nick's reading Cosmopolitan. Nobody is quite sure whose it is.)

"So." Tyson's kind of bored, and hopes this will be good. He shifts so they're both more comfortable.

Chris exhales and looks at Tyson through his lashes. "I'm horny."

Nick snorts. "Where's Mike?"

"With some chick at the venue," Chris shrugs, and Tyson decides to bunch one hand into a fist and knock it into Chris's ankle. Just because he feels like it. He ends up leaving his hand there, opening it out and splaying. Chris keeps looking at him. "Gonna do something besides touch my ankle, Ritter?"

Before Tyson can even flick a glance over, Nick's already exhaling like he's settling back. "Don't mind me," he says, and the pages of his magazine rustle. Tyson smiles, and though it's only Chris in his line of sight, the smile's for both of them.

"Maybe I was thinking 'bout it, yeah." Tyson starts crawling up Chris's legs, and there's a certain amount of resettling and shifting going on before he's crouching over Chris's middle, head poised to lower, hands slowly, slowly sliding his pants down.

"Would you hurry up, Ty, I'm fucking hard," Chris rolls his eyes, lifting his hips and practically shoving the remainder of his clothes off. Tyson licks his lips and takes him in suddenly; Chris sucks air in as Tyson sucks his cock in, and their bodies move in harmony, undulate.

Tyson feels Chris's hands in his hair, and he closes his eyes and sucks, flicks and swirls with his tongue. Chris bucks and makes a long satisfied sound when he comes. Tyson swallows.

"Thanks," Chris smiles, petting his hair. Tyson moves to lie against his hip, looking up at him and smiling softly back. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Nick leaning over him.

Nick kisses Tyson's hair. "You done with this?" He holds up Rolling Stone, and Tyson nods. Nick pauses, kisses his nose this time, and returns to his spot, opening the magazine. Chris runs his hands through Tyson's hair, and Tyson wonders if they have time for a nap. He's feeling pretty warm.

*

**just heading into Iowa**

Tyson finds out he can deepthroat by accident.

There's a bump in the road, somewhere in the spaces between states, and Tyson has Nick on his back in the bunk, taking his cock in as far as he's ever taken it, then the bus jolts and Tyson almost chokes – "Shit, sorry, you okay?" Nick starts to ask, but Tyson – Tyson _is_ okay, as a matter of fact, and he swallows around the head of Nick's cock.

Nick's head nearly hits the partition behind the pillow. Tyson would smile if he could move his mouth.

"Fuck _fuck_ fuck _fuck_," Nick hisses as Tyson keeps sucking. _Hmmm_, Tyson thinks, sliding one finger slowly and carefully into Nick's ass, making him arch off the mattress. _Yeah. Yeah, this is kind of awesome._

His throat is sore the next day, and he lies under the humidifier for longer than normal. Nick puts his head around the curtain, looking guilty.

"Hey –" he starts, but Tyson cuts him off by yanking him into the enclosed space of the bunk.

"Don't you even _dare_ apologise, Wheeler," he growls, and Nick winds around him, limbs tangled in familiarity.

"Your throat," Nick says weakly. Tyson grins.

"Could take your cock again some time, so shut the fuck up if you want that."

Nick closes his mouth. Tyson laughs, and Nick buries his face in his shoulder, smiling. "Alright. But I'm trying it on you some time."

"Baby, you have a gag reflex. I'm not saying you shouldn't go for it, by all means," he adds quickly, "just, y'know. Not everyone's as good as me."

Nick hits him in the chest and rolls out of the bunk. "Lunch, Ty," he calls, and Tyson waits a few seconds before getting up.

*

**New Jersey, dead of night**

Mike is drunk.

That's not to say that Tyson isn't. Or, for that matter, that everyone else isn't. (Though Tyson is probably the least drunk.) But only Mike is in Tyson's lap. And only Mike is _wriggling_.

"Something you wanted there, Mikey?" Tyson grins and kisses Mike's nose, because Mike is fucking cute when he's drunk and can't stop moving. He even giggles, if you tickle him right.

"Maybe." Mike's happy. He has that thrumming air of contentment that makes Tyson want to lean against him on long bus rides and just spend some time smiling.

"Gonna tell me?" He thinks about the rest of the question, but no words seem to come out. Besides. It's a fucking infectious facial expression Kennerty is wearing.

Mike leans closer, mouth against Tyson's ear. "Maybe," he breathes, and is that his tongue flicking against Tyson's earlobe? Possibly. That is definitely something pressing into his hip.

Tyson grins. "Oh ho," he says, apropos of nothing. "We gonna play a game, Mikey?"

"You only call me Mikey," Mike whispers, like he's delivering the best secret in the _whole world ever_ and Tyson's life is going to be made complete by the knowledge, "when you like me a lot."

"But I always like you a lot," Tyson points out. This is important. He feels it is very important. Nick passes, patting him on the head.

Mike looks him in the eye, studious, but still somehow beaming from his every pore. "Do you like me a lot now?"

Tyson slings both arms around Mike's waist. "Yeah, I do like you a lot now. Right this _second_, I like you the _most_." He pauses. "Except for Nick."

"I love you too, Ty," Nick shouts from somewhere nearby. Tyson raises his bottle of beer. Mike rests his head on Tyson's shoulder.

"Do you like me so much you'd blow me?" Mike asks, and Tyson doesn't even hesitate.

"Of course, man, want me to blow you? I could blow you. You guys don't mind if we go have sex, right?" he calls to the rest of the bus.

Chris laughs. "You leavin' the room for that?" he asks.

"Yes," Mike replies, because it's Mike.

It's quieter in the back lounge. There's no one in here, but the TV screen is playing its screensaver, something swirly and ever-changing. Tyson kisses Mike, keeping one eye on the screen just in case it does something that turns out a funny shape so he can laugh at it. Mike hums into his mouth. He sounds a little like a tuning fork; Tyson tries knocking the side of one hand against his arm to see if there'll be a chime, but all that happens is that Mike giggles and Tyson has one more thing to remember under the 'shit that makes Mike giggle like a girl' category.

Tyson pushes him gently down onto the couch, unzipped, all requisite clothing removed (or at least pulled down far enough) and takes a moment to nuzzle Mike's cock with his nose. Mike smiles at him, brushing one hand through his hair, the other resting at his hip (still holding his beer, Tyson notices, and hey, he's never tried washing his hair with beer, so that'd be a new experience if it spills) and whispers something Tyson doesn't quite catch. It was most likely "Ty, yeah," and he takes that as his cue; closes his mouth over Mike's cock and licks.

Mike arches his back and almost spills the beer, steadying it against Tyson's neck. It's a point of coolness, the rest of him overheated. Sweat beads on his forehead as he opens his mouth further, as he wraps his hand around, as he twists and laps and sucks. The beer bottle slides against his neck and Tyson rubs his stomach against Mike's leg, pretty much humping it. Mike cups his cheek, bucks, and closes his eyes. Tyson watches.

Mike comes three minutes later, just as Tyson's jaw is getting tired and he's starting to sober up. He takes a swig of Mike's beer to wash it down with, and gives him a toothy grin.

Mike pets his hair and leans back, closing his eyes. Tyson figures he'll be asleep in a couple of seconds; he rearranges Mike's jeans as neatly as he can, pats his hair, and finds a blanket to throw over him.

*

**Glasgow**

They're back on the bus, after signing tickets and booklets (and one girl's bag) and Tyson is either ready to sleep for a month or stay up all night, he can't decide. It's fucking cold, April in Scotland, and Forrest stole his hoodie so he's shivering in just a shirt and a thin jacket.

Nick steps up behind him – he can tell it's Nick because nobody else smells just like that – and wraps his arms around his waist. "Want me to warm you up?" he murmurs into Tyson's shoulder.

Option b, Tyson thinks, turning around to rest his hands on Nick's hips. "Yeah, sounds good."

They're moving, just a tiny bit, as if they stay perfectly still they'll disappear, but if they move too much they'll be noticed, or maybe fly away; Tyson hasn't been sleeping much this last week, and for a minute he's sure that if he doesn't keep millimetring (like inching, only smaller) his groin towards Nick's, he will actually float away out of the window. The movement grows until Tyson grins, takes Nick's hand, and starts waltzing him around.

Chris laughs behind them. Mike starts humming – "Da-da-da-d-da" – and Chris joins in, "DAH DAH, DAH DAH". Tyson can hear Mike smiling as he hums "da-da-da-d-da", Chris coming in again, "DAH DAH, DAH DAH", and adds his own voice, "da-da-daaaaaa, da-da-dahhhhhhh", and Nick joins in for the finale, "da-da-da-da-da da-d-d-DAH".

Shabba shakes his head. "We're leaving in twelve, just make sure everything's here."

Tyson salutes, dropping Nick's hand. "Yes, _sir_," he drawls. Now he's stopped dancing, he's back to small movements, constant.

Nick's arm is still around his waist, and now his head is leaning affectionately against Tyson's shoulder. "I think Ty still needs warming up."

"Want us to help?" Mike asks, standing.

"Sure thing, boys," Tyson holds out his free arm. Mike and Chris step into the circle, all four with their arms around each other. The air in the middle warms up with the shared body heat, and Tyson stops shivering.

The bus starts moving just as Chris locks the back lounge door, Nick with his head buried between Tyson's thighs, Mike pressed to Tyson's side. Chris takes his place at Tyson's other side and kisses his neck. "We'll keep you warm," he murmurs into it.

"I know," Tyson exhales. He has Nick's mouth on his cock, Chris's on his clavicle, Mike's on his lower lip, and he just played a show, and right now Tyson Jay Ritter is the happiest fucking dude on the planet.

*

> **Stillwater**
> 
> It's summer, and everything sticks to everything else.
> 
> Tyson kind of hates it.
> 
> It was fun for a while, when Nick was here, but now Nick's gone to _college_ and Tyson won't see him until winter break. Fall is going to be long, he thinks, staring at the calendar his mom hung in the kitchen. He wonders for the hundredth time in four weeks what will happen to the band now.
> 
> "Tyson honey, we have to go," his mom calls, and he makes a noncommittal gesture.
> 
> "Okay. See you Sunday," he calls back.
> 
> "You will. I'll give Aunt Margaret your love, won't I?"
> 
> "Yes, Mom." He rolls his eyes. At least he's old enough now to plead homework and avoid the birthday visit. Fucking family parties, the only good thing about them lasting all weekend is when you can stay home from them.
> 
> He hears the front door open and close, and leans to check; they're all piling into the truck, doors slamming and engine starting. It's a sound he likes (when it's going away from him) so he listens for a minute.
> 
> He tries to think who'll be at the bar, who'll be free tonight to do _something_. If there isn't anyone, he'll be stuck at home with some beer stolen from his pop, playing his CDs as loud as he wants and lying practically on top of the air conditioner.
> 
> He thinks maybe that doesn't sound like such a bad plan after all.
> 
> He's in the basement, looking behind some boxes of old magazines for the beer stash, when he hears the clattering coming from upstairs. He stops; his folks will fucking kill him if he lets them get burgled, but he doesn't have any desire to play the dumb hero, and he wishes for a minute that they'd waited half an hour longer.
> 
> The clattering comes again, and he realises that it sounds like a stone hitting the wall of the house. He moves without thinking, up the stairs as quietly as he can, checking out of the kitchen windows.
> 
> Nick is standing in the garden, staring up at Tyson's bedroom window and readying another stone to throw.
> 
> Tyson is sure, for three entire seconds, that he's either dreaming or hallucinating or somehow already drunk. Maybe all three. He reaches the conclusion that he doesn't care, and yanks open the screen door.
> 
> "Nick _fucking_ Wheeler, what the fuck? Aren't you at college?"
> 
> Nick's head snaps down from the window so fast Tyson's surprised he doesn't get whiplash. "Holy shit, don't sneak up on me like that, you freak!"
> 
> "I'm the freak? You're the one who's _supposed to be in college_," Tyson says, stepping closer cautiously. Nick's awfully real-looking for an apparition. (But then isn't that the point of apparitions?)
> 
> "Nah man, I packed in that shit," Nick says with a shrug, and Tyson can't think of a more beautiful phrase ever uttered in his presence.
> 
> "But you were getting out of here! Going to college, man, that was the _plan_. You get out of Stillwater, you take me with you, it's the deal." Tyson swallows, stepping even closer.
> 
> Nick suddenly breaks into a grin. "We can do that without going to college. Get a van, your dad can sell us one or something, go touring. Our _band_, dude, it's our ticket out of here. You, me, the open road."
> 
> Tyson is inches away from him now, breathing shallow. "Yeah?"
> 
> "Yeah."
> 
> "You left college to tell me that?" Tyson reaches out with one hand, tentatively touches Nick's hip through his jeans. Nick breathes in.
> 
> "No. I left college," he doesn't meet Tyson's eyes, mumbles something.
> 
> "What?" Tyson leans closer.
> 
> Nick puts his mouth right to Tyson's ear, breath tickling in the heat. "I left college," he whispers, "because you weren't there, and one fucking month without you was bad enough. I couldn't do three fucking years."
> 
> Tyson doesn't care that they're in his back garden, that anybody could see them, Tyson doesn't fucking care about _anything_ but this right now. He kisses Nick, hard, pulling him closer by the belt loops.
> 
> Nick exhales, "_Yes_," into his mouth and puts his arms around Tyson's waist, low. The evening heat hangs on his calves, but he barely notices. Nick laps at his tongue, and Tyson whimpers back in his throat, dipping his fingers in the waistband of Nick's jeans.
> 
> "My folks are away for the weekend," Tyson murmurs as the kiss ends. "Got the place to myself."
> 
> Nick smiles. The sun is setting behind him. "Now you've got me, too," he says, and kisses Tyson again.


End file.
